1. Mia

Chapter 1

Mia

The late afternoon sunlight floods Bianca’s penthouse at the Waldorf Astoria, reflecting off the sleek marble floors and catching on the gold accents of the furniture. The space is a vision of modern luxury, as perfect and curated as the woman who owns it.

“Mia!” Bianca’s voice carries from the hallway, light and melodic, as she steps into view. Her dark hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and her fitted cream blazer looks like it walked off the pages of a fashion magazine.

“Bianca,” I reply, feeling a smile creep onto my face despite the nerves twisting in my stomach.

She closes the distance between us in a few graceful strides and pulls me into a quick hug. Her perfume—something floral and expensive—lingers in the air as she steps back.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, her smile genuine. “I’ve been dying to show you this place. Isn’t it amazing?”

“It’s stunning,” I admit, glancing around again at the sweeping views of the Las Vegas Strip visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “It’s very... you.”

Bianca laughs, a light and easy sound. “Daddy insisted on the best, as usual. Come, sit.”

She leads me to a plush white couch that looks like it belongs in an art gallery, gesturing for me to sit beside her. I place my portfolio on my lap, gripping it like a lifeline.

“So,” Bianca begins, leaning back with the kind of confidence that only she can pull off, “this gala. It’s going to be huge . And there’s no one else I trust to make it happen but you.”

My best friend’s words are warm and encouraging, but they don’t quite shake the weight of the moment. “You’re sure?” I ask cautiously, glancing down at the folder in my lap.

Bianca tilts her head, her smile softening. “Mia, you’ve planned events that people still talk about. That charity gala last spring? Genius. The vineyard wedding? Flawless. This is no different. You’ve got this.”

I nod slowly, trying to absorb her confidence. “You said this is for your father?”

Bianca’s expression shifts, her smile turning a little mischievous. “Yes. Daddy’s hosting it. And let me warn you, he’s not easy to impress. But once he sees what you can do? He’ll love you.”

Her mention of Carlito Marcelli sends a ripple of unease through me. His name carries weight, even outside of Las Vegas. From what little I know, he’s a powerhouse in business—a man whose presence demands attention.

“What’s he like?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

Bianca smirks. “Commanding. Intense. The kind of man who can walk into a room and own it without saying a word. He’s a perfectionist, Mia, but he respects talent. And you’re the best.”

I swallow hard, her words settling over me. No pressure.

Bianca smiles like it’s all so simple, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You’ll be fine. Just keep your ideas sharp and your confidence sharper. Daddy respects people who can stand their ground.”

“Easy for you to say,” I mutter, but my tone is light.

She laughs, the sound bright and unbothered. “Come on, Mia. You’ve handled way worse clients than Daddy.”

“Have I, though?” I raise an eyebrow, my voice tinged with teasing disbelief.

She rolls her eyes. “You planned a wedding where the bride insisted on live peacocks during the ceremony. If you survived that, you can handle this.”

I chuckle despite myself, the memory of that chaotic day flickering in my mind. “Fair point,” I admit, but the knot in my stomach doesn’t fully unwind.

Bianca stands, her movements fluid and purposeful, and crosses to the glass coffee table. She picks up a folder, the Marcelli crest embossed in gold on the cover, and hands it to me.

“Here,” she says, settling back into the couch as I take it. “The guest list, the initial budget, and a few notes from Daddy’s assistant. It’ll give you a sense of what you’re working with.”

I flip the folder open carefully, my eyes scanning the pages. The guest list alone is intimidating—a who’s who of influential figures from politics, business, and entertainment.

“This is serious,” I murmur, the weight of the task pressing a little heavier.

“Of course it’s serious,” Bianca replies lightly, as if it’s obvious. “But that’s why I called you. Daddy doesn’t trust just anyone with something this important.”

Her confidence in me is unwavering, but it only adds to the gravity of what’s ahead. My fingers trace the edge of the folder as I take a steadying breath. “What’s the vibe he’s going for?”

“Elegant but not boring,” Bianca says immediately. “Sophisticated but not pretentious. And absolutely no glitter or neon.”

I snort at the last part. “Well, there go all my best ideas.”

She laughs, and for a moment, the tension in the room eases. “You’re ridiculous,” she says, shaking her head. “But seriously, just keep it classy. Daddy’s all about appearances, and this gala is as much about his image as it is about celebrating his success.”

I nod, scribbling notes in my planner as my mind starts piecing together ideas. Themes, color palettes, potential venues—they all swirl in my head, competing for attention.

Bianca leans forward, her expression softening. “You’ve got this, Mia. I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t believe that.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly, meaning it.

Her phone buzzes on the coffee table, breaking the moment. She glances at the screen and sighs. “I’ve got a meeting downtown, but stay as long as you need. Go through the folder, take notes, whatever. Just text me if you need anything.”

I nod, clutching the folder like a lifeline.

As she grabs her purse and heads toward the door, she pauses to look back. “Oh, and Daddy’s assistant will confirm your first meeting with him soon. Don’t overthink it—you’ll be great.”

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I exhale slowly, sinking back into the plush white couch. The late afternoon sunlight spills across the room, highlighting the gold accents of the penthouse. It’s beautiful, sure, but also a little overwhelming—like everything in Bianca’s world.

I open the folder again, flipping through the pages carefully. Each detail feels heavier than the last: an exhaustive guest list of power players, notes on logistics, and the faint outline of a timeline. There’s something almost surgical about the precision in these documents.

The name at the top of every page—Carlito Marcelli—stands out like a flashing neon sign in my mind. Bianca talks about him like he’s larger than life, and I can’t deny that the name carries an almost mythical weight. A commanding presence, she’d said. Intense. The kind of man who can own a room.

My stomach twists as I imagine meeting him for the first time. What do you even say to someone like that? What kind of expectations does a man like Carlito Marcelli have?

The soft buzz of my phone interrupts my thoughts. I glance at the screen, and my breath hitches.

The subject line of the email reads: Meeting Venue Confirmed— Time and date to be sent later.

The message itself is as sparse as it is formal: “You will present your initial ideas at The Wynn’s private dining room. I expect professionalism. Carlito Marcelli.”

That’s it. No pleasantries, no room for interpretation. Just instructions.

I read it again, my pulse quickening. His words are precise, clipped, and utterly commanding. Even through an email, his presence feels tangible.

I close the email and set my phone on the coffee table, staring at the glowing skyline beyond the windows. I’ve worked for demanding clients before, but something about this feels... different.

My mind starts racing with questions. What kind of man sends an email like that? What does he expect from me, and what happens if I don’t meet those expectations?

A shiver runs through me as I lean back against the couch, clutching the folder to my chest.

This isn’t just about planning an event anymore. It’s about proving myself to a man who seems impossible to impress. A man whose reputation alone makes me second-guess every decision.

But I’ve faced high-stakes situations before, and I’ve come out stronger every time.

As the penthouse falls into silence, a quiet resolve settles over me. Whatever Carlito Marcelli throws my way, I’ll handle it.

I have to.